If she had lived
by Brocktree
Summary: An old Martin reflects on his life in Noonvale. A 'if Rose had lived' fanfic... but a different theme that coincides in its twist. One-shot


_Something I wrote over vacation on paper, with a few words changed, since I didn't have access to a computer. This was inspired by The Great Gatsby, the old sport who deserved more than what he sought for._

"Oh, you lucky squirrel."

Martin the Warrior was sitting in his old, albeit elegant, oak chair. Its polished wood was laden with turquoise cushions. Soft red trimmings climbed their way up the slightly arched legs until they seamlessly transformed into a collection of golden feathers upon reaching its peak, near the mouse's large ears.

A massive window structured to Martin's right helped the sun spread its warm spring light all throughout the white room, causing all of its embellishments around the marble fireplace to sparkle with dazzling vitality. Martin's gray fur glowed to an almost whitish tinge in the warmth from the instilling light.

Time had been very kind to the old mouse. His brown furred features had changed into a healthy gray. His once proud countenance now resembled that of an immensely satisfied mouse who had experienced life to its fullest; simply put, satisfied.

His gaze was transfixed on an ancient and partially cracked canvas painting of a young couple: a squirrel and his wife. The squirrel's chin was inclined, and his face, a mixture of both proud and stern, as if he was brooding on some old, painful memory. The wife's body leaned on her husband's, and her head was buried in his sturdy chest. Her beautiful face shown with love and reverence for the squirrel. Though her eyes told a different story. In the painting they were halfway open, as if caught in a picture perfect flutter, and they gazed up at her husband lovingly, but behind this thin, glassy veil of love her eyes displayed, an everlasting fire stirred. Although it had been tamed at the time of the painting, Martin knew that it had once been a wildfire.

Martin chuckled softly, his drooped whiskers dancing adherently. "Though, you Felldoh had been the one to tame that fire, eh?"

Martin's gaze lingered on the young squirrelmaiden's face for a moment before retreating down toward the great bulge that protruded from her golden pinafore. Martin's nodded in understanding; she had been pregnant at the time of the paining, perhaps assisting to douse the wildfire even more. He remembered now, it had been a small litter of three: two girls, one boy. A fourth had been born, but had died a week after birth due to being too small.

Celandine had been the only beast he had ever known to change so quickly. The innocence (if that could be said) and vainness of her youth had quickly transcended into wisdom after her children's birth - and then tenfold by the time of their deaths. She had outlived them, alongside Martin. As a matter of fact, right now, she was probably dozing softly amidst her great-grandchildren in a little cottage she lived in outside of town.

Felldoh, however, had remained reserved ever since his slave days. That's not to say he never changed. After Brome had rescued him after nearly being killed during his fight with Badrang, he had regressed into a deep coma for nearly a season. When he had awoken, the war was over, and Celandine was still at his side, despite the many scars that now littered his body. Celandine had helped him to walk again, as his whole body had become very thin, even thinner than during his slave days. During his season long recovery, his superciliousness had decreased upon the realization that he was forced to rely on others. He was abhorred by his situation of course, though over time his personality became softer, more caring, and less selfish, especially after his children's birth.

Martin's thoughts lingered on the two for another fleeting moment before straying. It wasn't long before they caught the painting of a mouse. He wore simple green clothing, Noonvale's usual: a green shirt that draped below the waist in a triangle, and baggy shorts that ended at the knees. His expression was a simple and kind smile, one generally worn by a benevolent leader.

Martin smirked with respect. "Brome."

Brome had become the leader of Noonvale, inheriting Urran Voh's peaceful dynasty after his passing. He had been reluctant at first, wanting solely to be the town healer, but he eventually grew comfortable with the job and responsibility. He had even married an outlander; a mouse from the woodlands outside Noonvale. A season after their marriage, a renegade band of foxes attacked Noonvale. If it hadn't been for the bond between Noonvale and it's outsiders, the foxes would have taken over the village.

Martin recalled the incident. His only son, Luke, had been the hero, successfully executing an attack against the foxes. Martin leaned back in his chair, his eyes becoming distant as he dug even deeper into his past.

Luke had been his only child; the near reflection of Rose. He didn't sport Martin's brawn, but had Rose's brains and common sense, and was deft with the bow, a talent not often found the humble mouse.

Suddenly Martin frowned, his whiskers drooping a little more than usual. Luke had his life taken in the attack. An arrow from the hoard of fox had found itself in his leg. He had pulled it out on the spot and continued fighting. Not long after the battle subsided, it had become infected. Nobeast - Brome included, could do anything to save him. He had died less than a season after the final conflict between the warring factions and joined his wife in the Dark Forest leaving behind a legacy of four boys and a girl.

Martin could never tell this to Rose when she still lived, but he had always regarded his son's life as something of a tragedy. Luke's Wife, Helena the fieldmouse, had died giving birth to the litter of mice. After that day, Luke had become distant, never too close to another beast, which dampened his relationship with his children. After Luke's death, Martin believed that Luke knew that his leg had been infected; that he chose to put off telling a healer until it was too late. In Martin's eyes, a selfish move. Ever since then he had kept quiet about this mental burden, and he would continue to until his own death, whenever the Dark Forest ushered him to join it's ranks.

Martin shook his head ruefully. "Oh Rose, if you had known your son's sacrifice. Though he's probably told you by now." He looked over to the third and final painting that hung on the wall of the room, a beautiful mousemaiden holding a small babe, along with himself, who stood with an erect carriage and was proudly looking down at his family. He wore a blue tunic, with his father's sword hung loosely at his side. Rose wore a pinafore that was littered with many iterations of Roses, and their son was bundled up in a crimson cloth.

Martin's smile had rejuvenated at the sight. "My dear Rose, there's no telling how my life would be if you had left me during the fight with Badrang." Badrang had thrown Rose into a wall during the final battle of the war. Martin had been at his weakest when he discovered her body lying limp in the soil. All he could do was sit by her and hope as Brome worked on her diligently. It had been the greatest relief to him when Brome announced that she was in a stable condition.

Thinking deeply, Martin recalled that dark day. The battle was won, but the air had made everybeast quiet as they huddled around Rose's limp body. And through her labored breathing they stared anxiously. It seemed as though the clouds dispatched and the sunshine flooded in right as Brome had looked up to him, his countenance radiating happiness through his smile and teary eyes. "She'll be alright! Good thing Felldoh had wounded Badrang when he had encountered him, otherwise, if Badrang would have thrown her up against the wall any harder, she would have... possibly fractured her skull, instead of just this large bump!"

It was an amazing day, his Rose had lived! After they married nearly a season later, he wondered how he'd ever have survived without her. What would he be! Just a thorn bush with nothing to cradle and protect? His Rose had lived.

Then, after the birth of their great grandchildren four seasons ago, the Dark Forest's kind hand had made it's way through Noonvale to take his Rose. The transaction had been peaceful, as it had been during the night. Martin had woken up and looked over to Rose, a subtle smile on her face. She had left the best way possible.

All of a sudden, his thoughts ceased as a knocking came from his cottage door. The knocks were in quick succession and a child's rapt voice sounded from the other side of the door. "C'mon Grampa Martin! Today is the last day of the week, we gotta go visit Grandma!"

Martin chortled as he stood up and answered the door. When he opened it, he found himself staring into the eyes of a beautiful mousemaiden slightly taller than him. She held the paws of two younger mice, twin girls, just a few seasons old.

She grinned at him. "Well, what do you say Grampa? Up to visiting Grandma today?"

Martin stretched his arms and stood up erect, now eye level with his Granddaughter. "Well Young Rose, I feel fitter than a flea today! So I'd say that it's a great day to visit her!"

Paw in paw, they headed toward Rose; They headed toward the entity who'd eternally blossom in their hearts.

888

A young mouse shuffled a stack of paper as he looked over to an elder who was lounged in a chair near a wispy fire. "So, do you think he'd like it if he were still here?"

The elder winked at him, firmly grabbing his cane to help him stand. "Aye, it's comforting to me, though it might have incited more sadness than happiness if he ever read it. You were supposed to write an obituary, not a story about what could have been... as wonderful as it could have been."

"Martin's funeral is tomorrow. I can write a good sized biography before that, but I had wanted to show you this after he left us last week. I hadn't had much time, but I got it finished. I think Martin deserves that."

His elder nodded, a sly look flickered in his expression. "I really liked it, I did. And I agree, Martin deserves the best, more than your story, especially after what he was put through," A far away look appeared in the old mouse's eyes. "I wished the best for old Martin. I had even tried to find him a wife in my youthful and merry days, but he just wouldn't have it. After long agitating him about it, he finally told me the story of Rose and Noonvale. Then he told me not to tell any other beast, but... I told you," He shook his head slowly. "So I ask you, rid of that story. Martin's the greatest beast I've ever met, and I consider it the greatest honor to have been his friend. So please, get rid of that story and don't tell a soul about Rose. Martin was old when he realized this, but it's not what he wanted to be remembered by: Rose, that is. As a matter of fact... he deserved _**better**_ than Rose. He spent most of his life brooding over her, and all she probably wanted as she watched from the Dark Forest, was for him to move on and find another maiden and have children and find happiness in them. Surely no beast, no matter how much in love they were, would want their young widow to live out such an existence!"

The young mouse protested, sticking up a claw. "But without him, Redwall wouldn't even exist, surely that made him happy!"

Gonff held up a paw. "He was miserable as he did it. He told me that every night, his thoughts wouldn't be about Redwall, or it's inhabitants, or even about himself and what he wanted; they'd be about Rose. It wasn't until he suffered his injuries from Tsarmina that this began to happen less often, and when he finally accepted it fully, almost thirty seasons after her death, it was too late for him to find happiness. The most that can be said, is that he found some satisfaction after hanging up his sword and settling down to his peaceful ways."

The young mouse looked somewhat disheartened, but nodded in understanding. "Yes sir, Grampa Gonff," He shied away, but then turned back, a sorrow look in his eyes. "I'm sorry if this sounds impudent, but if Martin had had a choice between Redwall and Rose. What do you think he would have chosen?"

Gonff appeared taken aback, but quickly regained his composure. "I don't think I even knew Martin enough to answer that. Trying to elicit something from Martin was like... why, it's like trying to pick your way through a thorn bush! Trust me, I've tried both. But I'll tell you this, he deserved more than both... now, excuse me if you will, but I'm not willing to let my porridge get cold, and you know how your mother is, she makes sure I eat everything!" He patted his stomach and made his way out of the room. "Oh, and please do as I asked."

The young mouse stared at the papers in his paws absently, and then sighed. "I'm sorry Martin, I tried, I really did," He advanced over to the fire and chucked them in, watching them melt into oblivion. The young mouse leaned on the mantle over the fireplace, his throat choking to stiffle tears at the sudden realization of the nature of Martin's loss. He had lost so much more than a Rose.

"If only she had lived."

_Remember to review, I mean, even a sentence saying you read it and you thought it was good/bad can go a long way for a writer's morale. Though, if you think it was bad and you don't like it, please don't say this **unless **you tell me something I can improve on. Be a critique, that's all I'm asking for, and if you don't have the time, leave a sentence. :_)

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